


I'm a Diamond in the Rough

by grimtart



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Drug Use, Drugs, Everyone Is Gay, Gen, Hamilton Uses Drugs And Everyone Gets Worried Eventually, Lams - Freeform, Laurens Is Already Worried, References to Drugs, The Tags On This Site Are Honestly Ridiculous, What Have I Done, What Was I Thinking?, i love it, shipping isnt the main focus of this fic tho dont let the tags fool u, tHANK U, there will be some shipping but since this is a serious topic im not gonna romanticize shit ok
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-19
Updated: 2016-04-17
Packaged: 2018-05-27 19:05:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6296206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grimtart/pseuds/grimtart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>drug<br/>drəɡ/<br/>noun<br/>plural noun: drugs<br/>1. a medicine or other substance which has a physiological effect when ingested or otherwise introduced into the body.</p><p><em>"It was not, however, until he was connecting needle with skin that he really</em> felt <em>himself sinking away from his withdrawals with ease. Maybe before he sunk, he found himself admitting for the thousandth time that heroin was terrifyingly sweet."</em></p><p>Alexander Hamilton loses his inspiration for a long time. Being in a bad crowd with an unhealthy quilt of friends, he becomes hooked on drugs, falling for, "this drug can heighten your creativity." John Laurens, his best friend, invites Alexander to apply at the college he goes to; he does, and he rooms with John when he's accepted. John is trying to help Alexander through his withdrawals and through the process of kicking his addiction, but it's only been a couple weeks since Alexander had moved in. He's still fresh to recovery.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Definite TW for drugs. 
> 
> Don't be shocked when my fanfiction mentions these: LSD, heroin.

It was funny how time worked. It could go too slow, slower than Alexander's thought process on a bad writing day, or it could go too fast, like the cars that bustled through the midway of New York City. Alexander Hamilton was a proclaimed lover of slow time; when time went slow, he had more to work with. More hours, more minutes, more seconds, all of which fell into place in his life spectrum. With more time, he could feel better. He could learn how to take care of himself more fluently instead of depending on isolation and Hercules's occasional "how are you?" text.  College life, Alexander realized, only limited time's ties to his life further.   

The way college worked was foreign to the young Caribbean man. He had graduated high school two years ago with flying colors and a degree in his hand, and even with that he had struggles with his next level of schooling. More than being frustrated with the material he had to learn, however, he was frustrated with his own personal life and decisions. He had so much to learn, so much to teach himself, all the while learning from professors who tried to teach him even more.  

Hercules, a very good friend since early high school, had been kind enough to let Alexander stay at his house before he had even thought about going to college. It had been wonderful. Alex had a job downtown at one of New York City's libraries, spending nearly every day reading and writing behind his desk. He was constantly distracted by the books he was supposed to put in their assigned shelves (sometimes, he was caught sitting by the window behind the A-C bookshelves, reading the books that belonged in the "Clark, Mary Higgins" section). Nonetheless, as all good things tend to do, the job came to an end when Alexander found himself an apartment on the other side of the city. Without any patience to drive through the crowded streets, he quit his job and settled for a job at another library that was located closer to his new residence (one that was significantly smaller in size).   

The apartment building seemed to have been itching for young adults. Alexander was one among the many abundances of college-aged kids who began residing there when summer rolled along, the beach nearby as well as many other venues. That aside, the young Hamilton had moved in simply because it was the cheapest apartment he could find that was available for rent. He had a roof over his head, a job that paid eight dollars an hour, and he never found himself bearing a complaint.   

Being an artist in what seemed like the slums of New York City certainly took a toll on Alexander's life progress, though. Not long after moving in, he found himself engaging in friendships with all the wrong people, officially throwing himself into a sea of trouble. The friendships were completely mutual, Alexander involved in a circle of closely knitted friends who seemed almost too secretive sometimes. Even to the Caribbean man they seemed to be a bit apprehensive. Even so, he stayed in the circle and allowed himself to become more and more involved with each day, each night, that they would spend together.  

It was not until a late summer night of uninspiring material that Alexander figured out why his friends were so secretive. The medium olive skinned man, hair pulled back and eyes hard with unresponsive focus, had been sitting in another apartment room, the company of his friends all around him while he wrote and tore his brain apart for ideas. What else could there to be write about? Everything, and nothing. Nothing, and everything. Alexander was at a loss for words, as he not often found himself. His desperation for inventiveness of any sort was beginning to show in his features; to this, his friends, appearing to be a little less hesitant with him, gave him a suggestion.  

Drugs.  

The suggestion was daunting. Though taken aback by the daringly open option, Alex found himself contemplating it. Maybe once. Once couldn't hurt, right? Wasn't all that "once will lead to many times" idea shoved into school systems and down students' throats to keep them from trying in the first place? Alexander knew self control to an extent. He had dealt with many things in his life between his father's abandonment and his mother's death, his cousin's suicide and a hurricane that ruined his life; he was sure that he could handle something so trivial, something controllable by his own actions, something that he could change if he wanted to.  

One night was not enough.  

A week and a few drug sessions later, Alexander was knocking on another apartment door. His first dealer, who was not his friend, simply a drug dealer, was towering over him with a cocked brow. Somehow he was doubted, not taken seriously, up until he took out his money and told the other man about who suggested him. It was obviously the shorter man's first experience with a real dealer, and among his first with drugs in general. To this the dealer had smirked, said, "Come inside," and spoke thoroughly and clearly to Alexander. After an agreement, the smaller man was granted both a new friend and his first dealer. He had access to a large amount of things, a large amount of microdots and as much powder as he could afford.

Time passed as it so often did, and it was clear that he was becoming addicted. A dry mouth, the feeling of floating like a feather, and dilated pupils became commons, a weak and nauseated body always coming afterwards. Eventually Alexander became immune to the negative effects (so he thought). The work he would spill onto a piece of his journal paper with each high would either be outstanding or terrible; it was like flipping a coin. Less often (yet more often than he would like), he had bad trips, having took too much of what he was given (at first LSD, something that was, he was told, less addictive, something he could discreetly tuck away without a mess on his hands, but later he leaned on heroin, something scarier and a lot more dangerous). He was typically careful of his dosages, but sometimes he screwed up. Never fatally.

The night of his worst breakdown was a nearly a year later when he had texted John Laurens, his best and closest friend, with a cry for help:   

 _ALEXANDER: Whta college do you go to? Stil lthat same oldone dowmtown? Im just curiousab out tuition._  

The typos had been due to his trembling, and though he was aware of them he could not take the time to fix them. Isolation. A break. Time to think. Time in general. Alexander needed so many things. He needed to get a hold of himself, continue his education as he wanted to for so long now. Moving out of the damn apartment building would be good for him. Luckily enough, John had space in his dorm room for one person, and that person ended up to be none other than Alexander Hamilton. It was with haste that the Caribbean man applied for the college; once accepted, he packed his things, made his final payments to the apartment business, and moved out. He was on his way to stay with John and go to college.  

Kicking his addiction was not as easy as he once thought.

An "emergency" pouch of specifics had been shoved into one of the inside pockets of one of his bags, but he was going to try his best to not use anything that was inside. If John caught him high (or even saw the pouch, hidden and kept secret) there was an incredibly high chance that an argument would break loose. With his condition, Alex was not sure that he could handle arguments of such high tension, especially not with his best friend in the entire world. He couldn't have that, and, needless to say, if John were to see heroin stashed in one of Alexander’s bags, there would be consequences. So he was determined to keep the secret tucked away, safe and untouched.

Though, if he had intended it to sit there for nothing, he would not have brought it.  Alexander Hamilton had only been in college for a matter of weeks (two weeks, to be frank) and he was already struggling. The beginning assignments seemed to be easy enough, but the lack of ability to debate and argue threw him into a state of displeasure. Atop of that, he wore a constant tremor and unfocused eyes that were accompanied by flu-like symptoms, often giving others a suspicious impression and making it hard for Alexander to live life without the occasional question or two ("Are you okay?" was his least favorite). In any case, though, he was well liked by most every other college student he met, and he had many friends just in his first two weeks. He had joined the debate team and was already held up in high hopes. Everything besides his withdrawals were great.

His withdrawals...those were another story.

The pouch was still inside of the bag's inner pocket, untouched.  

It was nearing seven o'clock and Alexander was sitting on his bed. His fingers shook while his eyes focused hard on the early pages of _Catcher in the Rye_ . Where was John? Was he not supposed to be back after classes? Maybe he wasn't. Alexander could not remember. Perhaps the other was studying, or running a few errands. No matter at all, Alexander decided, his eyes moving away from the book for some sort of break. He inspected the room thoroughly, and then the window, his thoughts not on _Catcher in the Rye_ but on his current state. He hadn't slipped more than once in two weeks no matter how tempting it had been. He hadn't used any sort of drug besides once. Neither his cold sweat nor his nausea, his mood swings, pressured him into using.

But the bag's inner pocket tempted him so.  

He refrained for now.

 

 

John Laurens was a curly haired southerner with an abundance of freckles and a passion for animals. There was no doubt in the fact that he was a good young man; always at the top of his class and surrounded by people who loved him, he grew up intelligent and prepared for college. Somewhere along the way, when he moved to New York City with his family during his sophomore year of high school, John had met Alexander Hamilton, a bright young man with plenty of potential. It wasn’t surprising that the two caught on like a fire and became friends instantaneously.

The pair did everything together. Alexander had convinced John to run for student council with him (Alexander was president for the rest of high school, John managing to snag vice president for only one year); John had made sure that Alexander took the same art class as him; they scheduled their lunches together, which is how they and Hercules met a foreign exchange student named Lafayette. Lafayette, pleased with meeting them and being their friend, signed up for the same foreign exchange program the following year, and moved to America when he was eighteen since it lined up with the beginning of his senior year. It was goodbye to France and hello to new beginnings.

After high school graduation, John’s father insisted on college. Immediate college. Despite this, the young man shook his head and turned to a veterinary clinic uptown, working as a secretary at the front desk. His work and Alexander’s kept them from seeing each other too often, apart from time spent with Hercules and Lafayette at one of their houses, but this was not too bad. They were working on their lives and still texting every day; it wasn’t like they completely drifted apart.

Not until Alexander got his new apartment.

Things had flowed as usual. Texting and the occasional phone call still were plenteous, both young men continuing to strengthen their friendship, though after Alexander’s housewarming party things began to dwindle down. John received less texts, nearly zero phone calls, and ended up sending mostly unanswered messages by the time he was accepted into a college he applied for (since his father had begged him for what seemed like ages; John _wanted_ to go to college, but he wished that he had a little more time on his hands).

Working as a secretary and going to college was a hard balance, but John made it work. He was a creative one, that was for sure, which meant he had a creative enough mind to set out a fluent enough strategy to balance both sufficiently. Texts between himself and Alexander began to pick up after a while; some of them seemed a little suspicious, as though John should have been worried about what was going on. But he did not worry all that much. Alexander was a smart man, he knew how to take care of himself. The Caribbean man would not let anybody or anything push him around, John was sure of that.

Nearly a year later, a frantic text in the middle of the night was what sparked John’s genuine concern. He had responded, half asleep and in bed on the night before an important exam:

_JOHN: Alex? What’s wrong? Tuition isn’t bad._

After a long, long conversation, a few things left unspoken, John made sure that Alexander was going to bed before he went back to sleep himself.

It was not very long before John’s best friend was accepted and moving into his dorm.

John knew everything after the conversation that they had. He knew about the drugs, the apartments, and Alexander’s friends; those three things were all it took to convince John to sway Alexander towards college, and he had been successful. By no means, though, was he planning on bringing anything up unless it was completely necessary. Alexander did not need that sort of weight on his shoulders while he was trying to get better. Knowing that well enough, John avoided the topic in order to keep his friend positive and determined, being sure to be a great friend in the meantime.

The curly haired brunet had forgotten to tell Alexander that he had to go to work after classes were over. It was his own mistake, wrapped up in his own personal world, but he made up for it by saying, “Hey, I’m real sorry, had work,” as soon as he walked inside. By then, it was seven thirty in the evening. Alexander looked like he was trying to read. John, grinning a little bit at this, slid his shoes off and gently nudged them to the side. “You look like you’ve been busy.”

Alexander looked up from his book with relief. He hesitated, trying to bring his mind back to reality instead of his thoughts as he responded, “No, that’s fine, yeah. I’ve been reading this. _Catcher in the Rye_ . It isn’t bad. It’s no _To Kill a Mockingbird_ , but it’s not horrible.” Tone off and a bit coddled by strain and nausea, the younger man sighed as he closed his book. Page twenty two was bookmarked accordingly before he set the book down next to his pillow. “How was work, John? Did you do anything productive, or did you play with the animals instead?” His words were fixed into a playful, friendly tease.

“I can’t play with the animals,” John corrected his best friend, laughing and padding over to plop down onto his own bed across from the other’s. “I’m just a secretary, I get to see them though. It’s not _pet-_ ticularly the same.” The pun was a stretch, but John was pleased when Alexander groaned at it. “But yeah, did productive stuff. It was only a few hours but, hey, I’ll take what I can get.” His eyes raised. Upon looking at his friend, he noticed that the younger’s whiskey-colored orbs were bobbing back and forth between the gaze given to him and his last unpacked bag.

Something was wrong.

It made John sigh softly to _almost_ know exactly what was wrong.

He did not know about the pouch, but he had a feeling it was to do with Alexander’s situation.

Slowly, as to not sound a mental alarm in Alexander’s head, John scrubbed his face and stood up again. “You want something to eat?” he asked, patting his friend’s shoulder supportingly as he strolled to the other side of the dorm. Opening up the mini-fridge beside the desk that he and Alexander shared (admittedly, the majority of it was taken up by Alexander’s papers and journals), he nodded towards the contents inside. “I have snacks.”

“Nah, not hungry.”

“What was that? You’re hungry?”

“ _Not_ hungry--”

“Oh! _Very_ hungry! I’m your man, Alex, don’t worry about it!”

John laughed lightly, but knew that the other probably needed to eat. He knew Alexander’s schedule rarely included any eating sessions beyond lunch and something light for dinner. Two waters and two Greek yogurts were taken up in the southerner’s hands before he pushed the mini-fridge’s door shut with his elbow. He set a water and a yogurt next to Alex and then sat back down on his own bed.

The atmosphere was light, but John worried. He worried a lot. Even after Alexander smiled and kept his gaze in one spot (across the room at the window), John knew that he was struggling. He couldn’t blame him and he did not want to blame him. This was a very hard process. While he could not speak from experience, he knew that his friend’s struggle was something that he could not comprehend himself. It was important to be there, for him, though, and that was just what he was going to do. He was going to support him and help him through everything.

“Alex,” John said, “tell me about _Catcher in the Rye_.”

“I’m feelin’ a little bad for Ackley.”

“Ackley anything like you?”

“ _Hell_ no. I’m more like Stradlater,” Alexander joked.


	2. Chapter 2

“And that’s the entire reason why I dislike the Republican party as a whole.”

It was true that Alexander could give a candid speech about anything.

It was also true that John listened with content each time.

Speaking was one of Alexander’s favorite things to do, right next to debating. He could lay down a fluent ten minute speech without preparation, and that was part of what made him a phenomenal student. He was intelligent, gifted in both words and spirit, and he had a very outright demeanor that triggered his confidence. His confidence sure was something. Offensive or not, Alexander always announced what he thought to be true, and while this was a bit cocky he was typically correct. This helped make him a wonderfully consummate speaker. 

As for right now, Alexander was only giving John a speech because he wanted to. His dislike for the American Republican party only grew with each day. John, understandably, agreed, having listened to his friend speak while he worked on his own essay. They were both on their laptops, on their own beds across from each other. 

“Wow,” John responded, an honest raise of his eyebrows kicking in, “that’s certainly somethin’. No wonder the debate team wanted you, you got the brains of the operation.” Biting his lip, he found himself constantly pressing the backspace button, deleting then replacing his words over and over again. There was one week left to finish the assignment and he almost had it completed, so he decided to close the document for the time being. He had his art blog pulled up in seconds. 

“Nah. The debate team wants me because I’m the only one of them who knows what I’m talking about. It’s like none of them have picked up a book, John, I love every one of them but damn.” It was warm, but Alexander insisted on his long sleeved shirt. He itched at his arm irritatedly. The needle marks under his sleeve, reminders of his struggle, seemed to hiss back at him with mutual irritation. As if on cue, his nausea spiked.

Keep calm.

Alexander reminded himself to keep calm multiple times every day. It was a necessity. He was aware of how much John worried whether the other knew so or not; in spite of this, Alex tried his best to remain content, hoping that it would help both himself and John in the long run. It had to help. 

The sun was still high in the sky in the middle of the afternoon. It was a Saturday and the two young men had no plans other than to sit where they were on their beds, messing with their laptops and talking back and forth. They did this whenever they had free time to spare. In a way, it was their time to bond, to unwind together. Some days this was well needed, other days it was well-deserved. To be quite frank, Alexander, at that time, desperately needed to be around John. Being alone was out of the question, being scared of what he would do by himself. Still, though, he had moved his bag from the floor and set it next to him on the bed earlier that day, a hand tracing along the inner pocket every so often as he and John Laurens spoke back and forth.

Taking note of the pocket tracing, John pulled an elastic off of his wrist and pushed his hair back into a ponytail, tying it up somewhat loosely. While this kept his hair out of his face, the loose coils puffed up behind him, but he paid no attention. “Honestly, you saved the entire team. I’ve heard they haven’t won a debate season since the nineties,” the older joked. He watched his laptop screen for a couple more moments before looking up at Alexander. “So. You gonna get into any other clubs? You could run for student government in  _ college  _ too, y’know.” 

Alexander’s expression grew amused within seconds. “Oh, absolutely,” he responded, a sure tone glued to his words. “Maybe. Who knows, speech club’s calling my name. So’s the French club, and the Democrat club. Too many clubs, I don’t have the time for all of them though.” Unlike his expression, his timbre was a bit dull, strung out, seeking for something to spike it the way that he wanted it to spike. 

Oh, and his bag was so nearby. 

Again, he refrained. He forced himself to refrain. His eyes rose from his own laptop to meet John’s gaze, and even though he felt sick and weak he managed a grin. “What do you think?”

John gave the question some thought before answering honestly. “I think you should go for as many clubs as you wanna. Take it from someone who’s in the art club,  _ and  _ the cooking club,  _ and _ …” The air vent clicked as he allowed his voice to trail off, breaking his eyes away from Alexander’s when he registered the other’s grin. That was more like it. While there was a thick, tense atmosphere hovering over them, it was better to see Alexander with a smile than with a frown. John looked back at his laptop. “Hey. Herc texted me last night.”

“Hm.” Alexander had closed his own laptop and picked up  _ Catcher in the Rye  _ again. Holden was way too sex-hungry, he decided. 

“Yeah,” John continued, “I think he wants to stop by and visit for a night. That’s okay, right?”

“Of course. Is Lafayette coming?”

“He said he’s trying. Work’s got him by the skin of his teeth.”

Nodding, Alexander turned his page, the restlessness that he had been plagued with for more than a week only intensifying. He worked as hard as he could to make it seem nonexistent as he read. He hadn’t seen Hercules more than a few lately, it would be real refreshing to spend a night with him. It was the same with Lafayette (Alex hoped that he could make it). Sometimes, the universe set things up that kept friends away from friends, and it was not fun. Not at all. “What night?” Alexander asked.

“Next Friday.”

 

 

 

Next Friday was quick to arrive. Alexander had an unbearable shortage of time between classes and club sign-ups (he had decided on speech and French to go along with the debate club), but at least he had seeing Hercules to look forward to. They had been texting for a long time, but they had not seen each other apart from a couple of times per week since Alexander had gotten his new apartment. Hercules had constantly gotten bullshit “sorry” texts from Alexander to say that there just wasn’t time. Alexander always had work, or always had to clean up the house, or always had to do something else. It had gotten concerning. One of the reasons Hercules wanted to visit had to do with that.

Hercules Mulligan was a young Irish man that grew up in New York City. Having spent his whole life there, he had complete knowledge of everything that went on around him, and had a job practically set up for himself by the time he was out of school. He worked happily as a tailor in midtown NYC after high school, which, truthfully, was what he had expected to do anyway. The tailoring business he worked for was family owned. There was about zero percent of a chance that they would have turned him down. Since the job was almost ten dollars an hour, he was making good money for a worker in a place like New York City. 

For quite a long time, Alexander had lived with Hercules.  They were friends and, at one point, almost lovers (a concept, though it was never acted upon). Even closer than they had been in high school, both Hercules and Alexander found themselves nearly dating, however the idea faded away when Alexander took himself to live independently. This did not prevent the two from staying close friends, however, and though they lived apart they saw each other a couple times a week or whenever possible.

It was a time of worry for Hercules when he lost most contact with Alexander. It was not like the other to stay distanced, so the Irishman had every reason to worry. One day, he finally buckled down and called him on the phone with a simple, “Alex, hey buddy. What’s been up?” It was miraculous that the call had been answered. Hercules, of course, took advantage of his time on the phone with his friend, insisting that he come over and pick him up for a drink or two at a bar they both enjoyed. It would loosen the both of them up. 

Without doubt, Alexander agreed.

It was when Hercules saw his friend that night that his worry was proven valid, kicking him in the gut and allowing a specific process of events click in his mind. The younger Alex was a mess of brown hair and scruff, pinpoints speckling his inner arm gruesomely; his hands shook and his eyes bore small pupils, small in a very bad way. And Hercules...well, he was not a fool. Other people might have passed this off as something trivial, not their business, but he did not, and instead of inviting Alexander out he stepped inside and closed up the door. They talked (despite Alexander’s constant drifting) and relaxed on the couch; Hercules did not push the other, being there for him and gently helping as much as he could as an alternative. That was all he could manage anyway while Alexander was high. This had to have been one of the first times, because as far as Hercules knew heroin’s effects faded with each use. Alexander looked...incredibly jacked up.

Hercules arrived at John’s and Alexander’s dorm room at eight thirty at night. The two college students had been watching movies boredly and were incredibly glad when their friend showed up inside. “Lafayette’s not here,” Hercules observed as he pushed the door shut, looking about the rather large dorm room with an approving nod.

John stretched. “He’s working. All that guy does is work,” he said, clicking the pause button on  _ Furious 7  _ so that the other could be welcomed inside more properly. It had been a long week; movies and friends would be his only saviors for the weekend. This was all right by him. “‘My heart is dedicated’ were his exact words.”

“Honestly.” The dorm room was cozy. It was very nice, Hercules decided, looking over at Alexander now. “Alex, you look alright.” He meant to say that Alexander looked much better than he did a few months ago, constantly drugged up and messily presented, but he was sure to remind himself that it had only been a couple weeks--if that--since his friend’s last drug usage. He could not outright talk about that. 

“You don’t look too bad yourself,” Alexander responded, his face lighting up. “You’re a sight for sore eyes, Herc, what you been up to?” Standing up, he stepped over to his friend and held his arms out, beckoning him with his hands to request a hug. He received what he asked for and returned it generously.

“Working. We’re all working. Me, Laf, John over there.” Hercules patted the shorter’s back before they pulled away from the hug. “You’re still working at a library, right?”

With a nod, the younger Alexander responded, “Yeah. This time I’m workin’ at the campus library. It’s actually kinda great, it’s only a few days a week but it’s a good job.”

“Liking it?”

“Think so.”

“It’s gotta be better than the tiny library by your old apartment.”

“Actually, yeah, it’s a whole lot better. It’s bigger.”

“I figured.”

 

Twenty minutes passed before the three friends, missing Lafayette dearly, were all sitting on Alexander’s bed, watching Netflix contentedly. They laughed together and exchanged jokes here and there, but, for the most part, they simply enjoyed each other’s company. 

Nonetheless, John and Hercules texted back and forth:

_ HERCULES: He’s been doing better?  _

_ JOHN: Define better. _

_ HERCULES: He’s not getting himself messed up all the time? _

_ JOHN: Not that I know of.  _

The two would stop checking their phones every so often to prove they were having a good time. They were, in fact, enjoying themselves, but the topic in their phones was incredibly urgent.

_ HERCULES: I’ve been worrying sick. _

_ JOHN: Don’t sweat it. Really. Ain’t a dealer on campus anyway or else they’d be caught. _

_ HERCULES: You better be right about that. _

_ JOHN: I wouldn’t put Alex in danger. He’s doing great rn. _

_ HERCULES: He looks like a nervous wreck. _

_ JOHN: Withdrawals. I’m trying to help without stressing him out. _

_ HERCULES: How’s that going? _

_ JOHN: Great.  _

_ HERCULES: You sure he hasn’t snuck anything into the dorm? _

_ JOHN: C’mon, have faith in him. He’s not getting high from what I know, he doesn’t have anything from what I know. He’s getting better. _

_ Hercules: Keep an eye on him. _

Both exceedingly concerned, John and Hercules looked at each other before looking at Alexander, who sat between them with crossed legs and pulled back hair, wearing a long sleeved shirt that hid whatever he wanted to hide. They had an idea of just how sick he really felt despite the mask he put on.

They didn’t like this.

Neither did Alexander. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for descriptive drug use.
> 
> Pro tip: don't do drugs. It is bad and unhealthy. I don't endorse drugs because they're bad, scary things. Be clean, drink a fruit smoothie, and save a life.

One thirty in the morning.

It was exactly one thirty when Alexander was twisting the lock on the bathroom door. Locking the world out was his best option, at least for the moment. His hands were tight around something green and leather. Something he had been keeping a secret for weeks. 

The pouch was full and ready for use and Alexander could not play the waiting game anymore. He knew what he wanted, he knew what he had to do. It would only be this time. One last time. Carefully seating himself on the edge of the tub, fingers shaking in fear that one of his friends might wake up (Hercules and John were, so far as Alex knew, sleeping on John’s bed), he opened the pouch with the smallest “click.” He practically flinched as he glanced up at the door and then back down again. No one seemed awake. Relieved, Alexander continued what he was doing, pulling things out one by one and setting them down on the floor in a frantic, hurried mess. 

He would do this, he decided, and then go back to his bed. He would lay down and pretend that nothing had happened. That he had not even gotten up in the first place. That he was completely clean. It was not like they would notice in the dark, would they? Of course not. It was late; Alexander was sure that everything would work out in his favor.

Either he was honestly sure, or his denial was telling him to be. 

It was a longer process for a fast result, really; Alexander pulled up his sleeve, and the wrap that he looped around his arm was tied like a tightly half-assed ribbon while he worked to put the rest of his supplies together. He fumbled many times, and couldn’t help but mumble semi-loud curses every little while when he found himself not moving quick enough. Truthfully, even being near the drug was making his pains fade away, his withdrawals being pleased and silenced with what they had been begging for. 

It was not, however, until he was connecting needle with skin that he really  _ felt  _ himself sinking away from his withdrawals with ease. Maybe before he sunk, he found himself admitting for the thousandth time that heroin was terrifyingly sweet.

Warmth was the first thing he could feel. Explosions of warmth from his arm to his chest, his belly, his hands still shaking as he finished. He did not pull the needle out for many seconds, letting the drug sink in more, more, before slowly pulling it away from himself. After another long few moments of hesitation, he set it on the edge of the tub next to himself and unwrapped the tie on his arm; it was dropped to the floor, and Alexander closed his eyes, leaning forward with his feet on the ground, head in his hands, elbows on his knees. 

Waiting was easy now.

It took minutes for a drug like heroin to take over. It was fast, fast and horrifying. Alexander was not even sure anymore whether he felt euphoria, relief, or both. All he knew was that he could not imagine himself without it, and that giving up his dealer and his apartment was beginning to look like a mistake. Sooner or later, he was going to run out. How could he avoid this feeling anymore? It was shocking that he made it as far as he had already. There was something about heroin that drew him in, that filled him with such drowsy delight that he could barely contain himself each time, all the while appearing so content and tired. It could fool anybody who had no lick of sense about the drug. 

Alexander slowly, slowly, picked up after himself, taking very appropriate measures while he did so. When he stood, the rush, the warmth, the punch of his high hit him hard, but as he tucked his now refilled pouch under his arm he felt the high sink back to a muffled euphoria. Now, it only served to dampen his withdrawal, to disable him and make him drowsily jacked up. He didn’t care. This was enough.

Twist.

He unlocked the bathroom door and opened it up, shutting the bathroom light before he moved more into the room again. It was one forty four. The young Caribbean man was rapid to hide the green leather pouch inside of his bag once more, pulling himself up to sit on his bed with a plop. This feeling was familiar; he pulled his blanket up and over his shoulders, wrapping it around himself as he leaned back against the wall, crossing his legs. Pinpoint pupils dominated his half-closed brown eyes as he looked around in the dark.

“Alex?”

The sleepy murmur of his name had his head lolling to the side, not able to see which of his friends was now sitting up (to Hell with both the dark and his blurred vision). No answer was given except for an unenthusiastic, “Hm?”

Rubbing his eyes and attempting to bring himself more to consciousness, Hercules yawned. What was Alexander doing awake? It was pretty late. The older had no energy to squint, so he shifted slightly to pull John’s lamp’s cord, letting its soft yellow light shine just enough to where he could actually see his friend. His friend who, admittedly, looked a little suspicious. “You okay? Something wrong?”

“Uh-uh.” His answer accompanied by a shake of his head, Alexander sunk more into his blankets, as though it would help him feel a little more secure, as though it would make him safe from being busted. “Shh. Late.” 

This was not right.

Hercules, apprehensive, hesitated for a moment, unsure of whether or not to make a big deal out of anything. Nevertheless, his gut was racked with bad feeling after bad feeling, torturing him until he pushed the blankets off of himself and stood up with a tired groan. “When’d you wake up?” he asked calmly, taking a couple steps over to Alexander’s bed so that he could sit down next to him. He left the lamp’s light on so that he could get a better look at the situation. Sure enough, with a brief moment of discrete inspection, he was able to identify his friend’s vacant, glazed-over eyes, his minute pupils, with ease, the expression on the younger’s face detached and spaced off if not too content. It was sufficient to send Hercules into major concern, but he did not let that show. Instead, he eased himself more onto the bed and leaned back against the wall with Alexander, looking at him with a gentle stare. “You know,” he said in a hushed voice (John was sleeping on the other side of the room), trying to keep conversation light and not associated with the matter at hand, “I miss you a whole lot. It’s a little lonely not having a library roaming around my house all the time. But I’m glad you like college.” 

“College’s nice.” Alexander’s words were slow, slurred with a mixture of exhaustion and dulled, twisted elation. 

“Mhm.” The clock ticked tensely. Hercules could not help but take a peek at his friend’s arm, unsettled by the track marks (most of which were old) that lined up anything but neatly. He turned his attention to the wall across from them, the one behind the side of John’s bed. “You’re just gonna work in every library in the world ‘till you drop, aren’t you?”

Pulling himself back from drifting off, Alexander gave a nod. “Every single one.”

Herc laughed lightly. “Yeah, yeah, I know, man.” He patted the other’s shoulder supportively and fixed his blanket; it had been falling off of him, but Hercules fixed that by wrapping him up comfortably once again. After doing that, he crossed his arms over his chest and relaxed a little bit more. He would probably sleep there. “You’re a good friend, Alex.”

“Am I?”

“You are.” 

The two of them exchanged extremely small talk for a while, sitting on Alexander’s bed with the only light in the room being a desk lamp. Hercules was very worried through the whole process; his friend had drugs on his person in the dorms, and only that friend knew where the drugs were. There was no way that he could confront him, not yet. Maybe he would just have John look later...even though that was a little sneaky. Sneaky for the right cause, though...right?

Right, perhaps.

Worse than having drugs in his dorm room, Alexander was high. He was still getting high. How many times had this happened? Was this the first, or had John honestly not been paying attention? Hercules found himself perplexed. He wanted the best for his friend. In order to get the best, most of what he and John could do to help was supporting Alexander and being there for him, helping him through the disgustingly tragic process of withdrawals and lack of drug access. 

The Irish young man only had to wait a little longer than twenty minutes before his friend was out cold, and after he checked his breathing and made sure that he was sleeping safely he shifted his friend to lay down. He was better off that way. Just like he originally thought, Hercules fell asleep on the end of Alexander’s bed with his back against the wall and his arms crossed, almost like a guard. 

Who knew, maybe he was a guard. So long as that meant Alexander was safe.


	4. I'm sorry it's been over a whole fucking month since I've updated I just like making my friend El suffer and wait for this chapter while I talk about bensnavi and not write this hell fic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks el, you named this chapter for me. bravo my pal. bravo.

The next morning was a lazy morning, and Alexander was the last one awake. Down from his high but not to the worst part yet, he found himself almost peaceful, laying on his back and opening his eyes to a white ceiling. The coffee pot on John’s side of the room churned vigorously and released the sweetest scent of french vanilla Folgers; the sun peeked through the blinds shyly, not disturbing the sleepy young man in his bed; the cars outside seemed to be muted. Everything was blissful, pleasantly drowning in peace, and Alexander found himself unable to get out from under his covers. They were warm, and so was his spot in bed. Despite the fact that his friends were already up and running, talking in murmurs and whispers on the other side of the room by the desk, Alex turned onto his side to face the wall and curled up a bit, attempting to fall back asleep for maybe a little while longer.

This was probably for the best. In any case, John and Hercules did not continue their hushed conversation until they were positive that Alexander had fallen back asleep. 

“So you’re telling me not to trust him?”

“No. Not that far, just, just make sure that he’s not hiding anything else. He probably  _ is _ , John, that’s what I’m worried about. Dude’s good about this stuff.”

“Yeah. Just, wow. You know, I can’t exactly just up and tell him, ‘Yo, Alex, you gotta hand over the drugs now.’” 

“That’s not what I’m saying at all.”

The two were extremely concerned about their friend. So concerned, in fact, that they couldn’t decide on how to confront him. If they were straightforward with him, there was a chance that they could scare him deeper into the drugs for good, that they could eliminate all chances of helping their younger friend recover. At the same time, however, if they left things alone and continued to be supportive and caring without confrontation, who was to say that Alexander would not continue getting high behind their backs? It was a scary topic and a scary reality. Tiptoeing was, unfortunately, necessary. 

John found himself incredibly overwhelmed. Had Alexander been getting jacked up behind his back since he had been at college? Honestly, it was a little scary to think about. Sure, they spent a lot of time together, but John worked longer hours and more days. John slept much earlier than Alexander on a typical night. Alexander could have been getting himself into a lot of trouble in that time. While John didn’t like the thought of “monitoring” his friend, he was also nervous about what would happen one night if Alexander was by himself and did something drastic. “I want him safe. I wanna get him off’a dope,” he said to Hercules, tone still hushed as he took a quick look at Alexander to make sure he was still asleep. Once confirming that he was, John turned back to the other. “ _ Without  _ raiding his stuff, if possible, Herc.”

“I think we might have to sit down and talk with him about it.” The cars outside were bustling a little bit louder now that the clock was striking nine twenty in the morning; Hercules Mulligan took note of that briefly. “I want him to be okay as much as you do, trust me.”

“The thing is, we can’t freak him out.” 

“And we won’t.”

“What makes you so sure?”

The air between the two was not unfriendly, rather the two were once again finding themselves at a slight roadblock. Hercules raised his eyebrows, eyes focused down on John’s in seriousness. “All we gotta do is not come on strong. Drugs aren’t like alcohol, you don’t usually forget what you do when you’re all drugged up.” He shifted a little apprehensively when Alexander moved in his bed, but when the other seemed to still be asleep all was relieved. Hercules could not help but sigh. “I think two people at once is gonna mess him up, though.”

Of course two people confronting Alexander at once was going to be too much. As far as John was concerned, one person confronting him was going to be too much for him as it was. The freckled southerner, though, knew that it was necessary if they wanted to lead him to recovery. Baby steps were key. “Should it be me or you?” he asked, leaning slightly to the side to flick the coffee maker off. The pot was still steaming so he allowed it a bit of time to cool off. John stood up a bit straighter and sighed through his nose.

“Maybe you,” Hercules answered. He would have done the confronting, had work not been something he had to attend in twenty minutes. In fact, he was on his way outside right now, having only stopped to speak with John for a couple of minutes. He could handle being a few minutes late if it was for Alexander’s benefit. 

John tucked his hair behind his ears. “Yeah. Guess so.” 

 

 

Time passed. Alexander had woken up and started moving around, though at the moment he was seated comfortably at his desk. His homework for next week was finished, but he was proofreading all of it for the third time now, sipping slowly from a cup of ristretto. He felt good. Withdrawals and pain never really hit until the second day after; while Alexander dreaded how tomorrow would feel, he tried very hard to focus on today and how sweet his drink was. Besides, his focus was glued to his homework. He could not have his mind wandering elsewhere.

Particularly sleepy, even in the afternoon, John felt himself grow more and more apprehensive about confronting his friend. There was a lot at stake. He was not exactly sure whether or not he was ready to make such a big risk. Then again, Alexander being in danger was urgent and John did not want him to be unsafe. So there he was on his bed, toying with his blog with a stressed out mien. All he could say was, “How’s the fourth homework check going?”

With a simper, Alexander responded, “Third. And it’s going well. I need to learn how to write neatly, though, ‘cause sometimes I’m not sure if I’m writing L’s or I’s and it drives me damn crazy.” For once his reading glasses were on. His hair was pulled back and out of his face, putting his grin and his bright eyes on display even from John’s angle. 

“Yeah.” John could not stand how short his response was, but there was no way to help it; so much was on his mind. He played with his hands while he lifted his eyes from his computer and to Alex. Five words. That’s it. That’s all it would take. John was still hesitating, stalling. But finally he managed, “Can we talk about something?”

This was the phrase that got Alexander to look up from his homework.

The young Caribbean man put his ristretto down but he kept on staring at his papers. “Shoot.” His focus was about half and half, tawny eyes inspecting each sentence, each word, each letter, with complete vigor while he kept his ears open for John’s words. 

“Herc told me some interesting news.”

“Oh? Huh. Bet it’s all about Lafayette. Spill it.”

“It’s actually not about Lafayette, so just--”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, just, hey. It’s about you.”

The room fell dead silent. Everything became tense within milliseconds, and Alexander found himself slowly, slowly, letting his papers be set down on the desk, reading glasses going along with them. It was like he knew. He shifted awkwardly in his chair before scooting it back and standing up.  “Huh,” he said absentmindedly as he started for his bookshelf, his timbre fairly distant in a way that indicated he was no longer interested in conversation. This had taken a nasty turn.

John, nevertheless, had no interest in dropping things here. He could not stop now that he was started. “Alex. ‘S it true that you got dope in here or was Hercules messing with me?” Just the sentence made himself cringe, and he avoided eye contact with Alexander as much as he possibly could. Now that the question was out, there was no taking it back. Wherever things went from here is where they would go no matter what. John’s gut was pinched with a mixture of guilt and perturbation. He knew the truth, and this was like a test. God, Alex, please tell the truth.

Alexander did not tell the truth, and he did not lie.

He just did not respond.

Instead, Alexander cleared his throat and kept on inspecting his shelf, basically pretending to search for a book. He eventually pulled  _ Fahrenheit 451  _ out from between his thesaurus and  _ Inferno _ . “That’s a weird place for that,” he practically mumbled, eyebrows indented as he avoided John’s conversational topic. “Little ironic, too. Finished  _ Catcher in the Rye _ , so I’ll give this a read for the millionth time.” 

“Alex.”

“Have you read this one? Clarisse is so tricky--”

“Alex.”

“--with all she does. She’s my favorite in the whole--”

“Alexander, seriously, I’m not playin’ around.”

Silence, again.

Alexander stopped talking. He set  _ Fahrenheit 451  _ down on his bed with what sounded like an irritated sigh before turning to look at John. “Okay. What?” he asked. His tone was tense, almost nervous. “It was once, and that’s all I had. Let’s drop it. Pretend Herc didn’t say anything.” He spoke lies.

“I don’t wanna drop it. I’m worried.” The truth was just that: the truth. It was raw, and it made John’s voice sound little, but it was honesty at its best. John was firm on this subject. One part of him wanted to respect Alexander’s boundaries, but another knew that he had to finish this talk with him or else nothing would get solved. He was so torn. His voice was gentler when he spoke next. “Look, if you got more, we can deal with this together. Work something out. But having drugs here is really risky and you  _ using  _ drugs is really risky.”

“I can stop whenever I want.”

“Then  _ stop _ .” 

“Whenever I  _ want _ .” 

Alexander’s voice had only gotten sharper, more irritated, but his tone was much, much softer. He sat down on his own bed across from John’s and buried his face in his hands, elbows on his knees. There was a long, long moment of silence before he continued, “Just a little’s left. I’m trying, alright? Trying. I kicked my own ass with this one, I get it, but leave my stuff alone and I swear that I won’t use it again if I can help it.”

Almost immediately, John’s eyes narrowed. “If you can help it?” he asked. What was that supposed to mean?

“Yeah. Trust me.”

“I…” The southerner’s voice trailed off, as did his mindset. God, where was he even going with this? He was going to talk more about the drugs, about what they could do about things, but Alexander already looked absolutely drained from this short conversation; his face was covered, but John could see his hands shake, and he knew that the subject was sensitive. So he bit his tongue for the moment and decided that they would just continue this later. 

Later. Of course.

“How much did you like  _ Catcher in the Rye _ ?” he asked Alexander.

“A lot.” 


End file.
